


An Exercise in Tactical Routes

by TheLocket



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Awkward Steve, Canon Compliant, Captain America: The Winter Soldier, First Meetings, Fluff, M/M, Meet-Cute, Running
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-27
Updated: 2018-03-27
Packaged: 2019-04-13 11:50:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14111736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLocket/pseuds/TheLocket
Summary: Steve decides to go for a run. But he finds himself deviating from his normal route in order to totally-not-stalk one very attractive stranger.(Based on this post: http://sashayed.tumblr.com/post/146611331850/sashayed-i-started-thinking-absently-about by sashayed.)





	An Exercise in Tactical Routes

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Captain America Is a Big Ol’ Creep and I Can Prove It with Maps](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/366651) by sashayed. 



Natasha lets the phone ring three times before answering. In those three rings, Steve considers at least sixteen scenarios that would involve her being in mortal peril, three of which include suspension by her ankles.

“Yeah.”

“Hey, it’s Steve. Rogers. You know. Captain America.”

“Yeah, I know,” she drawls. “In the future, we have this thing called caller ID.”

Steve paces his apartment.

When he doesn’t say anything, she asks, “You got the package?”

He pauses.

“Uh, yep,” he says, finally, because he’s fairly convinced that Natasha can smell a lie, even over the telephone.

“You’re welcome,” she says.

“I didn’t say thank you.” His tone is sharper than he intended.

“That’s just bad manners, Rogers.”

Steve sighs.

“Are you sure this is what people wear to exercise?”

He can almost hear the smirk.

“That tight, huh?”

“I’m pretty sure everyone can see my nipples. From Virginia.”

“Lucky them.”

“Romanoff, if this is a prank with Tony—“

“You wound me. Anyway, don’t you run like a three minute mile? You’ll be a blur.”

Steve sighs.

“Also,” she adds. “Isn’t it like four am there? No one will be out.”

She must hear him relenting somehow, because she adds, “If you get self-conscious, just cross your arms over your chest. Or I can get you a training bra if you’d like.”

Steve stops pacing and considers his reflection one last time.

“I’m starting to think friendship means something very different in this century.”

“C’mon, like you and boys didn’t roast each other back in the day.”

He hears jovial yelling and upbeat music in the background in a language he can’t understand.

“I gotta go,” Natasha says. “I think Clint is trying to pull a William Tell with a beer bottle and a handful of darts.”

“Glad to hear you’re taking it easy,” Steve retorts.

“Don’t be jealous. I’ll be back before you know it. And Steve—really. No one is going to be out at this hour. Trust me.”

 

* * *

 

Steve gets to the mall and yes, there is someone there. He’s also running, but he’s wearing a sweatshirt. Tricky bastard. No pectoral definition in a sweatshirt. Steve would try it if he wouldn’t instantly dissolve it with his sweat.

The Tidal Basin is beautiful this time of morning, and the sun is just coming up, turning the sky purple then pink in broad swaths. Steve sighs, and considers whether it’s safer to match pace and trail the tall stranger, or pass him and continue his run.

Right, because following a tall, dark stranger for his two-hour morning run is going to be less creepy than passing him.

He sighs, ups his pace a bit, and swerves away from the guard rail.

“On your left,” he says as casually as he can manage.

The stranger looks up at the words. For a moment he registers Steve, and Steve registers him. The morning sun is just reflecting off his skin, and his face is set with cheekbones and close-cropped hair framing bright eyes.

Oh shit, he’s tall, dark, _and handsome_.

Steve almost trips, because super soldier serum apparently makes him even more awkward. He barely passes him without obvious incident.

And then immediately wonders if his shorts are as revealing as his shirt. He didn’t even think to look, but now that’s all this man can see. It takes all his self-control not to look back and ascertain the TDH Stranger’s eye line.

At the first break in the trail he veers off, instantly relieved.

He finds himself in a loop, around the Jefferson Monument, and as he comes back to the main trail the panic hits him: what if he has simply timed it so that he will pass the same man again? Then he will definitely look like a creeper. He mentally chastises himself for his stupidity. Many four letter words are involved.

As he makes the turn, though, the main pathway is clear and he’s surprised to feel disappointed. And more surprised that he makes the second pass around the monument.

Why not? What does it hurt to enjoy the aesthetic pleasure of a stranger?

Since he's defrosted, of course he's seen attractive people. He's shared a room with Natasha Romanov and the god of thunder. Why should this be any different? And then, as he runs, he asks himself: why is it different? He makes the bend and promises himself that he’ll keep running, and his adrenaline surges at the idea.

But then the stranger isn’t there, and his heart sinks, and he turns around the monument again.

“Rogers,” he says aloud, talking to himself. Because after running in literal circles for the chance of seeing one attractive stranger is equal levels of crazy as talking to oneself while running a three minute mile in a skin-tight grey outfit. What had Natasha been thinking. The shirt and shorts aren’t even the same shade of grey.

Steve quickly makes a mental note. Pros of super soldier serum: in an attack, adrenalin spike allows brain to categorize attack, strategize, and find possible escape routes. Cons: this also occurs when dealing with unexpected sexual attraction. Just his luck that the first time this would happen he would be completely blindsided.

 

Steve has time, as he rounds the Jefferson Memorial, to consider twenty-three end results. Maybe the man ran away. Maybe he’s a covert assassin. Maybe he’s been hired by Natasha to troll him.

As he hits the curve one last time, though, he sees the familiar form trudging along. _Familiar_. How sad. He saw him once for five seconds.

Steve puts on a bit of speed and feels the bounce through his body. (Maybe Natasha is right and he really should consider a bra, it’s probably unsightly.)

What should he say?

Dammit. He didn’t think of anything. He yells at himself internally again, but just as he’s passing the stranger he has to say something, so:

“On your left.”

Maybe he pitches his voice a little lower. Maybe he makes a show of keeping his breathing calm so he seems more in shape. Maybe he adds an extra spring to his step.

That’s going to make his ass jiggle, too. Well, in for a penny in for a pound.

The stranger looks up and Steve watches the annoyance play out across his attractive features. The brows snap together.

Well, that’s one way to make an impression.

He smiles a bit to himself, and wonders if he’ll see him again. Maybe if he runs every morning at this time.

As he rounds the rest of the basin, he catalogues every detail about TDH. And especially that scowl. His strong brow ridge. His well-formed legs.

Sometimes an eidetic memory is a curse.

Enough, he tells himself, and wills his legs to keep running. As attractive as the man is, he isn’t a super soldier and runs at about half of Steve’s speed. In his ridiculous skintight outfit, Steve quickly puts distance between them.

Because if he did pass him again, what would that change. What difference would it make—he’s Captain America, for goodness sake, and he’s got 75 years of emotional baggage to prove it. And then what—they go on dates together to stare at the Wall of Dead Best Friends? He points to pictures in the Smithsonian, and cries on the stranger’s shoulders? His broad, strong, probably good-smelling, soft-yet-firm-with-perfect-muscle shoulders?

“Rogers,” he says aloud again, more of a growl this time, and shakes himself like a dog to dispel the image. And the tingling sensation along his fingers. And other parts.

The shame of having a body that is so many steps ahead is that it’s so many steps ahead all the time.

And literally, because now the attractive man has dipped into the distance behind him.

As the sun rises, in the light of day, Steve feels ridiculous. He ran around and around just to see a man one more time. (And got a pretty cute scowl out of it. He’ll have to tell Natasha about that one.)

He smiles, rounding the Lincoln Memorial, and makes a sharp turn back to Reflecting Pool. His first week in town he made that mistake too many times. The World War II Memorial is just not the way to start off his day. For a few steps, he feels bad—after all, that was built with tax payer dollars for those who gave their life in service—but just as he joins up with the path that runs parallel to the reflecting pool, his heart jumps. It’s him.

This time, he really runs all out. A full sprint. He can tell the man is nearing the end of his morning exercise by the droop to his shoulders. This might be Steve's last chance to make an impression.

But this time, the man is expecting him, and starts wheezing out: “Don’t you say it, don’t—“

His voice rises in anger. He even windmills his arms a bit in the semblance of running faster. It’s. Cute.

Steve grins as he passes him.

"On your left," he says again.

He is decently winded after that extra burst of speed, but it’s worth it to hear the man’s voice. It’s pleasant, like his face (and the rest of him), with a husky quality Steve assumes is mostly due to him being severely winded.

Steve reddens a bit, imaging more private ways to make him sound that short for breath.

As the stranger hobbles over to a crop of trees, Steve takes another lap around the Reflecting Pool. In the light of day, the stranger is just as handsome. And now Steve’s memory can catalogue every detail. If this wasn’t Erskine's intention for the serum—well then he made some truly shortsighted miscalculations.

The man is collapsed by the trees, and Steve trots over, feeling impish.

“Need a medic?” he calls.

It takes his mind a second to catch up with his mouth—that’s an army sweatshirt he’s been leering at. So TDH is a vet.

“I need a new set of lungs. Dude, you just ran like thirteen miles in thirty minutes.”

Steve makes a point of being obnoxious, and maybe it’s the endorphin from his run, but he feels the man’s eyes slide down his chest, so he takes a deep breath, puts his hands on his waist, and puffs out his ribcage. At this point . . .

“I guess I got a late start,” he says in his best Captain America voice.

“Oh, really?” the man asks, and Steve can’t help but grin at the indignation in his voice “You should be ashamed of yourself. You should take another lap.” He pauses, flaps a hand weakly. “Did you just take it? I assumed you just took it.”

Steve sighs. This is the sticking point. He should walk away, having terrorized this strange man enough. The guy is still wheezing. He may have done lasting damage.

But he doesn’t want the conversation to end.

“What unit you with?” he asks finally, grasping at straws. That at least isn’t too forward, right? Then he can have Natasha pull his records—

“Fifty-eighth, Pararescue. But now I'm working down at the VA." He breaks off to pant for a bit, then adds, "Sam Wilson.”

He has a name. Sam. It suits him.

Steve considers it a moment, but then holds out his hand for him. For _Sam_.

Sam takes the hand and lets Steve pull him to his feet. As he stands, Steve composes himself, and tries not to think about the touch too much. He will have to be professional. This is his job. His Captain America self.

Part of him wants to make up a fake name, to flirt with Sam Wilson Fifty-Eighth Pararescue cute grey sweatshirt who scowls when he runs. He could pretend to be anyone. Unfortunately, honesty wins out.

“Steve Rogers,” he says. 

Sam smirks, and Steve is already glancing down at the ground to hide the blush at the thought of that mouth.

“I kind of put that together," Sam admits. He considers for a moment, then adds, "Must have freaked you out coming home after the whole defrosting thing.”

Steve feels himself grow cold at the mention. The handsome stranger, just another gawker. Disappointing: so much promise in that smirk.

“It takes some getting used to. It's good to meet you, Sam.”

“It's your bed, right?”

Steve almost says: _I wouldn’t mind going to your place_ , and instantly stops in his tracks, holding his back to Sam for just the moment needed to compose himself. The serum upped his metabolism, he reminded himself. Faster heart rate, hotter body temperature. Burning 15,000 calories a day. Always hungry. And not just for food.

“What's that?” Steve asks as lightly as he can. Because Sam still wants to talk to him. That has to be a good sign, right?

“Your bed,” Sam says again, and Steve clenches his jaw in an effort to keep the blush from his cheeks. “It’s too soft. When I was over there I'd sleep on the ground and use rock for pillows, like a caveman. Now I'm home, lying in my bed, and it's like . . . ”

The longer Sam talks, his eyes bright, hands moving as he speaks, the more Steve feels himself melting. A smile ghosts across his face, and he didn’t even realize he had relaxed his jaw.

“Lying on a marshmallow,” he finishes with a smile and _oh no he’s nice too_ and they’re _connecting_. This is. Bad. “Feel like I'm gonna sink right to the floor,” he adds.

Sam’s smile in response has a sharp edge to it, and glint like the edge of a blade and Steve hears himself swallow audibly. Other men have looked at him this way, women too. It’s a wolfish expression, one that promises trouble. Steve's stomach dips, and he feels a clench below his belly button.

And he’s lost the train of the conversation again. Shit fuck. Captain America is a poster boy for the troops. This is his duty. And he's objectifying a stranger.

“How long?” he asks as formally as he can manage, and tries to ignore the hunger in Sam’s eyes.

“Two tours,” he replies, and his face softens. “You must miss the good old days, huh?”

“Well, things aren't so bad. Food's a lot better, we used to boil everything. No polio is good. Internet, so helpful. I've been reading that a lot trying to catch up.” He’s rambling now. Really, bringing up polio. He wishes his brain could just slow down a bit.

He knows one way to make it shut up for a good while. And his eyes drift over Sam. He’s been a veritable boy scout since defrosting. Maybe one indiscretion. One moment not as Captain America. One moment to be Steve Rogers, a normal man with normal hungers.

Sam, mercifully, stays on topic and offers a suggestion that is not x-rated: “Marvin Gaye, 1972, ‘Trouble Man’ soundtrack. Everything you've missed jammed into one album.”

“I'll put it on the list,” Steve promises.

But Sam catches his eye for a moment, and then his teeth hook on his lip.

“I’ve got a record-player back at my place. Real old-school. Just right around the corner.”

“Right around the corner?” Steve repeats, and he feels his cheeks coloring again.

“You could be there in two minutes.”

“I’ll do it in thirty seconds.”

“Oh,” Sam says with a smile. “I might slow you down. I was sort of counting on you carrying me.”

The grin surprises Steve, and that he feels his own face making one in response.

The chirp of his cell phone is. Startling. He almost jumps.

“Mission alert. Extraction imminent. Meet at the curb. :)"

Natasha.

“Alright, Sam,” Steve says, and tries not to sound as simultaneously relieved and disappointed as he feels. Relieved, because he doesn't have to make the decision to be disappointed. Natasha is making it for him. “Duty calls. Thanks for the run.” He pauses, considers what Natasha said about roasting. “If that's what you wanna call running.”

Flirting success. Sam grins. And extends his hand for a shake. This time Steve is ready for it—that jolt low in his stomach as they press palms.

"Oh, that's how it is?" Sam asks, and Steve feels his face melting like the rest of him.

So he repeats back, as seriously as he can manage, "Oh, that's how it is."

Sam chuckles, and the laugh is warm enough to make the butterflies in Steve's stomach dance. To think, he was this close to going home with him.

"Okay," Sam says, and he seems to drawing this out just as much as Steve. "But like I said, right around the corner. I have the sense that you know how to find me?"

"And that old-school record player?" Steve repeats back.

"Well," Sam says, and his eyes drift over Steve with that same hunger. "I like things old-school. And hey, could do for another ancient tool in my apartment. They don't make them like they used to."

Steve is saved from having to ask if Sam just called him an "ancient tool" by a black sportscar pulling up, and Natasha appearing at the window. She draws focus. Of course.

"Hey, fellas. Either one of you know where the Smithsonian is? I'm here to pick up a fossil."

Was she listening to their entire conversation? Steve is suddenly convinced she has his phone bugged. This worry is only further strengthened by her grin.

"That's hilarious," Steve tries, and makes a point of flattening his voice into barely above a growl. And then, to Sam, as light-hearted as he can, he adds, "Can't run everywhere."

He gets into the car and is certain that Sam is talking directly to his ass when he adds: "No, you can't."

The second the door closes, Natasha smirks at him.

"Have a nice run?" she asks.

Steve nods, staring out the windshield. He feels like he's just been through a battle. His body aches, unaccustomed to the surge of adrenalin—and other hormones.

"Uh, yeah," he says, nodding a bit, unsure if he's smiling or frowning. He hasn't felt this alive since 1943.

"Yeah?" she smirks.

"I thought you were at a bar with Barton."

"I thought you were self-conscious about your nipples," Natasha retorts, glancing down pointedly.

Steve sighs.

"Thank you," he says.

"For what?"

Steve smiles, a tight expression.

"You're welcome," Natasha says, barely a purr.

 

* * *

 

After the mission, Natasha pulls the car around to a nondescript house.

"Drop me back home," Steve orders, already undoing the neck straps of his navy blue suit. The op was a nightmare on the Lemurian Star, but at least they're back in one piece, and Nick only gave him half a speech back at the Triskelion.

"This isn't your place?" Natasha asks with another sphinxlike smile.

"Romanoff, please, I'm beat."

"You're about to be," she retorts, and jerks her head towards the house. Steve sighs, grumbles, and stomps out the car. He hammers his fist on the front door.

A sliver of light reveals Sam Wilson, in boxer shorts, looking adorably exhausted. This lasts for about five seconds; his eyes go wide at the sight of Steve in his full uniform.

"So how soft is that bed of yours again?" Steve hears himself asking. The door opens all the way.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Steve gets a text. Natasha is worried about the op. Something about Nick going dark, Maria called in, and her bugs on Steve's apartment going wild. (Great, Steve thinks, more listening devices.)

He sneaks out of Sam's apartment as quietly as he can manage, stealing some less conspicuous clothes and leaving a note scrawled on a pad in the center of the kitchen table:

"Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. Guess I owe you one."

He knows Sam will throw that in his face later. For now, though, he has to make sure there is a later.

["I made breakfast," Sam will say, "if you guys eat that sort of thing." He will glance at Natasha who is toweling off her hair, and then both will lock eyes on Steve, who will turn the color of a strawberry. So he'll owe Sam two breakfasts.]

Natasha lets the phone ring twice before she picks up. In the time it takes to ring, Steve inhales the scent of Sam off his stolen shirt in a completely non-creepy way.

"Making a hasty exit?" she asks.

"I'm in for the mission," Steve whispers.

"Are you calling me from his bedroom?"

"Backyard."

Natasha makes a noise like she's impressed.

In seconds, Steve hears the car gunning, through the phone and then in real life as the sportscar appears along the street. He gets in as carefully as he can manage, what with Sam's too-small t-shirt and shorts.

Before he can say anything, Natasha activates the hands-free. It rings once.

"Yes, darling?" Tony's voice is obnoxious in such a small space.

"You owe me a hundred bucks."

"Dammit," Steve and Tony says, at exactly the same time.

And then Tony adds, "Pics or it didn't happen."

Natasha hangs up and smiles at Steve.

"And I did all that with a smedium shirt," she simpers.

"That's not a size," Steve gripes.

"Imagine what I could do with an extra-small," she ponders, ignoring him completely.

"Honey," Steve cuts in, as harshly as he can manage, "nothing about me is extra-small."

"Your boyfriend teach you that burn?"

"Yeah, that," Steve says. "And other things. Last night."

"Please don't tell me he taught you 'that's what she said.'"

Steve pulls down Natasha's shades and places them on his nose.

"That's what she said," he says, triumphantly. He goes for the high-five, but Sam's t-shirt rips across his chest.

Natasha glances down.

"I see what you mean about the nipples," she says.


End file.
